Heather Graham - The Killing Edge

And in his eyes she saw that it was true. He and this man knew one another.

Stuckey looked at her. “I gather there’s been a misunderstanding of some sort,” he said.

She kept her jaw clamped tight, beginning to feel belligerent. Stuckey had found Jack all but beating her to a pulp, and now he was excusing the man?

“What are you doing out here?” he asked her.

“I was at the party,” Chloe said. “As you know.”

Stuckey’s bushy brows drew together. “Yes, why did you leave the party?”

“Because this man was chasing Rene.”

“Chloe, we’ve talked about situations like this,” Stuckey said.

Yes, they had talked about it. Often. He was one of her best friends—or so she had thought until just now. She had even promised that she would never let her “sniffing around” lead her into danger—such as leaving a crowded area to take risks alone—but … She dropped that uncomfortable topic for one that could feed her anger.

Since when was Stuckey buddy-buddy with the local fashionistas?

Which simply proved the truth of what she’d already been sure of. Jack Smith was no designer. So who—and what—the hell was he?

“Let’s take this inside somewhere,” Stuckey said—and it was not a suggestion.

Chloe realized that a small crowd had begun to gather around them. Stuckey took her by the arm and started toward the street and his car. It was a good thing he was a cop, she mused. Parking on South Beach at night was a near impossibility.

She was aware that Jack Smith was following them, and she wasn’t pleased. If she’d truly been a terrier, the hackles on her back would have risen.

“Where are we going?” she asked Stuckey.

“Somewhere private,” he said. “We can duck into Jimmy Ray’s—it’s too late for the teenagers to be hanging out, too early for the club crowd to be looking for a snack on the way home. We can find a booth.”

“I don’t have shoes,” she said.

“You can wear my flip-flops.”

They stopped at his car. Here on the sidewalk, the night was alive. Bands from a dozen clubs vied for dominance. People were everywhere, some in a hurry, some just soaking in the neon lights and the music.

Cars moved past at a snail’s pace.

Stuckey opened the passenger door and grabbed a large pair of flip-flops. She slipped them on. It looked as if she was wearing shoes intended for Frankenstein’s monster.

“They’ll do,” Stuckey told her curtly.

So far, Jack Smith—a name she was growing more and more certain wasn’t the one he’d been born with—hadn’t uttered a word. He gazed at Chloe as she took her first step, trying to keep the shoes on. His eyes were silver, and they had an edge. Everything about the man had an edge, from the angles of his face to the tone of his voice, and that edge seemed to demand respect. There was something about him. She didn’t like him. She was attracted to him, but she didn’t like him. And that was that.

No matter what Stuckey might have to say, she didn’t trust the man.

They made it across the street and down the crowded walk to the ivied opening that led down a narrow alley to Jimmy Ray’s.

Jimmy Ray had been born and bred on South Beach. He liked to talk about the old days, and he knew what he was talking about, too, because he had to be somewhere in his eighties. But he still worked every day, and he served the best pizza on the beach. He also had the best bar, and the lowest prices on mixed drinks. There was never a DJ there blasting dance music, though he brought in an acoustic guitarist now and then, someone with a mellow voice. People went to Jimmy Ray’s to talk, because he knew there was no talking when you had to compete with blasting speakers.

As Stuckey had predicted, the place was relatively quiet.

“Hey, Jimmy Ray!” he called as they entered.

Jimmy Ray, bald as a buzzard and equally intimidating, looked up from behind the counter. “Hey, Stuckey. Chloe.”

He didn’t greet Jack. Chloe was glad.

Stuckey had the good sense to usher her into a booth, then follow her in to sit beside her, blocking any escape. Jack Smith sat down across from them.

Stuckey rubbed his hand over the crisp white hair on his head. “All right,” he began, then stopped. Jimmy Ray had sent his waitress, Katia, over to them, her order pad in hand. “Coffee for me,” he said. “And … ah, hell, I’m here. A Mighty Meat pizza.”

“Chloe?” Katia asked. She was a very pretty girl, an immigrant from Ukraine, and had only been there for five years. In that time, she had learned English with only the trace of an accent.

Chloe smiled at her. “Iced tea, please.”

She was disturbed when Katia turned to the newcomer and smiled—familiarly. “And what would you like, Luke?”

She’d been right about one thing, Chloe thought with satisfaction. He wasn’t Jack Smith.

“Coffee, thanks, Katia,” he said.

Katia went away, and Stuckey turned to Chloe. “Seems as if we ought to start from the beginning. Chloe, this is Luke Cane. Luke, Chloe Marin.”

“Luke,” she said sweetly, staring at him.

“Miss Marin,” he returned.

“Chloe Marin,” Stuckey said, frowning, as if he wondered if he had remembered to mention her first name. “Chloe, Luke is investigating the disappearance of Colleen Rodriguez and looking into what’s going on with Rene Gonzalez.”

She stared across the table, frowning.

“But nothing’s happened to Rene—until he chased her away tonight,” she said, staring accusingly at Luke.

“Her parents have been worried,” Stuckey explained. “The last few times they called the mansion, Myra told them that Rene wasn’t there, and she didn’t know where she was or when she’d be back. And after what happened to Colleen on an agency shoot …”

“But … she … oh,” Chloe said.

“Oh what?” Stuckey asked.

Chloe shook her head. “I don’t know the whole story. But I think she’s kind of hiding from her father. He’s Cuban, very macho, very old school. He doesn’t want her modeling. It’s not what nice girls do, you know? But she’s over twenty-one, and it’s what she wants to do.”

“I’d still like to talk to her,” Luke said.

Katia brought their drinks, then discreetly slipped away.

“Why?” Chloe demanded suspiciously.

“Because of Colleen Rodriguez.”

She stiffened. She had infiltrated the agency herself because of Colleen Rodriguez.

“Why are you trying to talk to Rene specifically?” she asked, pretending she didn’t know.

“They were best friends,” Luke said.

Damn. He knew his stuff. She frowned.

“So I gather you two know each other well,” Luke said, looking from her to Stuckey as he changed the subject.

Stuckey sighed. Explaining their friendship was always difficult.

Luke sat back, one arm stretched along the seat. His eyes hadn’t lost a shred of hard silver suspicion as he stared at her. “Are you a licensed P.I.?” he asked her.

She was irritated to feel her cheeks grow red. “No. Are you?”

He nodded.

“I’d like to see your license,” she said, making no secret of her own suspicion.

He arched a brow and produced his wallet, opening it before handing it over. She stared at the insert, then glared back at him. “That’s a fishing license.”

He shrugged, not about to comply any further.

“He’s the real deal,” Stuckey said quietly, obviously getting irritated himself.

“Well, you might have said something,” she said, staring accusingly at Luke.

“Just what do you do, Miss Marin?” he asked. “Since you’re not a model.”

She had never said she was, but even so, she resented his implication that she wasn’t—something—enough to be a model.